


spirit, soul, and measure

by mazily



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 17:27:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1109556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mazily/pseuds/mazily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're going to think I'm crazy," Carey says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	spirit, soul, and measure

**Author's Note:**

  * For [impertinence](https://archiveofourown.org/users/impertinence/gifts).



Carey grabs PK's stick—not a euphemism, honestly; they're just horsing around, play fighting at the end of practice, and PK's stick is right there next to Carey's foot—and suddenly he's shaking and on the ice and PK's calling for a trainer, for Therrien, for anyone and everyone he can think of.

He panics. He's not ashamed to admit it--it's just, it's _Carey_. PK, the entire team, the entire country: they all need Carey to be alive and not concussed and not having weird fits while he saves every shot made his way and they win the gold and the Cup and he needs to be okay is all.

Practice slams to an absolute end. PK skates around a little. Tries to goad someone else into a little sparring: his body isn't ready to just stop, he needs to keep moving. Thank god for Prust, who rolls his eyes and drops his gloves. A couple of jabs, wrestling each other to the ground. Anything to keep his mind off Carey being stretchered off the ice and down the tunnel. Anything to force himself not to wonder if Carey was actually foaming at the mouth or if PK was imagining that. Imagining the worst.

He heads off the ice. Does his cool-down work, showers, gets dressed: everything's a little foggy, blurry around the edges. He drives home. Pulls into the garage and sits.

He honestly has no idea how long he's been sitting in his car, staring at the pole in front of him, when he realizes the music being piped in through the speakers is actually his phone. Could be seconds. Could be days. The call's already gone to voicemail when he tries to answer, so he scrolls through his texts. Worried teammates. Worried family members. Carey's parents are flying in as soon as they can get on a plane and PK's dad offers to visit.

PK shakes his head. Sends a group text to let everyone know he's home safe, that Carey's going to be fine. Positive thinking. He unbuckles his seatbelt and climbs out of the car.

*

He and Carey have been hooking up ever since he finally signed his contract last season: it started, actually, after a few too many celebratory shots after their first win back together. A blow job here, hand jobs there. And then actual fucking when they have a couple of off days stored up—not as often as PK'd prefer, but still. They're buddies. Who fuck. And if PK hasn't really picked up since they started, well, his needs are being met and he's a pretty busy dude, okay?

Carey doesn't call. PK knows he was admitted to the hospital, for every test ever invented and a few more that haven't been, but that's about it. He gets his work in. Plays a lackluster game—they win, but it's in spite of him. He sends Carey a couple of texts. Jokes from Prust, well wishes from Chuckie, Budaj's threats to steal Carey's job.

 _Feel better, dude._ _Eat your vegetables._ Stuff like that.

Carey's mom texts him when Carey's released from the hospital, but she doesn't invite him over so he can see for himself that Carey isn't any more brain damaged than he was before his seizure or stroke or whatever the hell it was. Which makes sense: friends, and all that, just regular teammates.

"They're holding him out for the rest of the week," she says. She sounds stressed. "But barring any complications, he can start practicing again next week. Do you think you'd be able to give him a ride in? For some reason the doctors are more worried about him driving than playing a game where people shoot things at his head."

PK does not, at all, scream in joy. He says yes. Maybe he does a tiny fist pump, but if no one's around to see it maybe the tree really doesn't make a sound.

*

Carey won't take his gloves off and he keeps fidgeting. Tapping his fingers on his thighs, biting his lip, shifting in his seat. PK tries to, but can't quite, stop himself from asking "Number one or number two, man? You need me to help you pull out your dick?"

Carey stills. Or, you know, he stops moving around quite so much: his fingers won't stop tracing the grain of his jeans. "Just frustrated," Carey says. "I hate not playing, and you know they won't let me start tomorrow night. Or possibly ever again."

PK rolls his eyes. He gets it--if he was in Carey's position, he'd be down in Therrien's office right now trying to prove he was okay to go against the Leafs--but today was Carey's first practice back. PK's okay with the team waiting until they know what the hell's really going on before letting Carey face even a single puck in game action.

"Okay, seriously," PK says. "Can you jerk off? Are you cleared to, because I can totally-"

"I'm fine," Carey says. "I passed all the protocols, and I'm okay. It won't happen again."

"Because you're a psychic now," PK says, and, wow, that made Carey flinch. Which is not at all the reaction PK was aiming for there. Laughter, maybe, or one of Carey's stupid fake smiles.

"No, really," PK says. He's gripping the edge of the table as hard as he can.

"I just, _I-know-what-it-is_ ," Carey mumbles. It takes a second for PK to figure out what he's saying. "It's genetic, okay, that's why my parents are staying around, not because I'm dying or something."

PK stares at Carey across the dining room table. Carey stares back. A game of chicken, only-

"You're going to think I'm crazy," Carey says.

PK swallows some water—hydration is an important part of any athlete's continued success and well-being, and he's not going to pull out the bottle of vodka Chuckie gave him for New Year's—and puts the glass down. "Kind of already do," he says.

"More crazier," Carey says. "Er. Crazy." He pulls off his gloves. Turns them over in his hands. "Okay, pass me something important to you. No, actually, put it down on the table in front of me. I'll pick it up."

Which. "No," PK says. He feels like his skin is vibrating, he's so pissed off. A hundred times more angry than playing against Marchand at his worst makes him. "No more bullshit."

"This isn't," Carey says. He reaches out, touches PK's watch. His eyes roll back, and he closes them. PK pats his pockets for his phone. Carey lifts his hand and opens his eyes again. They look normal. He grimaces, but he doesn't seem hurt. Just annoyed. "Look, I need to concentrate for this to work," he says.

PK takes off his watch and passes it across the table. Carey picks it up—eyes already closed this time—and hums. Something country and lame that PK vaguely recognizes from hours spent cramped in Carey's pickup truck during the summer.

"Uh," Carey says. He coughs. "So who is she? He? Them? I can't believe we, you-"

PK has no clue what Carey is talking about, which is more than a little scary after everything. Maybe he really is extra brain damaged after all. PK types his password into his phone. "Do I need to call an ambulance?"

"You're in love with someone," Carey says. Like it's obvious. Like _duh_. "That's what. That's what, see, I touch something you care about--your watch, your fucking stick--and I can sense. Stuff."

He grabs PK's phone before he can call anyone. PK finishes his water. Maybe he's the brain damaged one: he thinks he would've noticed a concussion, but maybe they really are that hard to diagnose after all. 

*

So maybe he has feelings for Carey, and maybe those feelings aren't just _bro I like to bone sometimes_. It's not important, and Carey was just being a dick asking him questions about love, and PK's entire body feels like someone ran him over and poured gasoline under his skin. He's not sure how many times he's vomited so far this morning, but it's probably more than ten. 

There's a glass of water on his nightstand. A couple of red and white pills. There's a Carey sitting in the chair across his room, glaring and quiet. "Uh," PK says. "Morning?"

"Shit," Carey says. He stands up. 

PK swallows his painkillers, swings the entire glass of water in one go. He tries to remember last night, but after Carey's weird psychic carnival trick there's not much: Chuckie's vodka, more vodka, and PK's pretty sure he should be grateful he upchucked the box of pizza rolls he thinks he ate.

Carey's suddenly sitting on the edge of PK's bed, and PK suddenly doesn't know what to do. He gets up. Doesn't throw up. Walks carefully to the bathroom to take a leak and brush his teeth.

Carey waits for him. Just sits there, wearing a t-shirt and boxers and socks like a loser, and waits until PK's teeth are minty fresh. PK sits down next to him. Careful not to move too fast.

"I," Carey says.

Oh god. "What did I do?" PK asks. He hates this feeling; he hates not knowing what he's done, or said, or fucked. "I'm never getting this drunk again."

"You called my mom," Carey says. 

PK lies down. His face feels hot. He wants to cover his face with his hands, but instead he waves to let Carey know to just keep going. To rip off PK's embarrassment like a bandaid. 

"She explained the whole, you know--"

"Psychic, that was--"

"Thing," Carey says. "How I can't read your mind, because that would be _useful_. I just get emotions and stupid clues that make no sense and stuff. It's a seriously shitty superpower, basically."

"At least you're not Aqualad?" PK offers. He picks at the hem of his boxers. His skin is covered in goosebumps, but he doesn't really feel like putting any clothes on. It's not that cold. 

"And then you offered to, I shit you not, _rock my world_. You couldn't stand up straight, which was a definite turn on, and then you passed out. It's been a romantic tour of vomit and snoring ever since." Carey recites it all like he's talking to reporters, which is how PK knows he's telling the truth. 

"Sorry?" he says. He is sorry. "Sounds like I was a real ass."

Carey shrugs. Lies down next to PK. "No more than usual," he says, and PK smacks his arm. Carey turns to glare at PK, but he's totally laughing at the same time. "If you don't want me to blow you," he says.

PK swallows. Carey doesn't look like he's joking; he's pulling PK's boxers down, actually, wrapping a hand around PK's dick. Just holding it. Like a contrary asshole. He keeps looking at PK, not talking, not moving. He'll wait like that, wait for PK, forever. 

"Just do it already," PK says. Carey tightens his grip just a little, grins like he's daring PK to fucking beg. "I hate you so much."

"Not what you said last night," Carey says. Before PK can even think about how to respond, how to deny it all, Carey's mouth is wrapped around the head of PK's dick. Wet and just the right amount of pressure to drive PK crazy: he blows PK fast and hard, almost like an attack, almost like a hit along the boards. PK lets him. Just lets himself ride it out. Mind empty, body humming, until he's pulling on Carey's hair and his toes are curling and twitching and--

Carey wipes his mouth on PK's hip. "Yeah, man," he says. "You really love me."

PK pets Carey's shoulder. "Lemme just," he says. He starts to reach down, he's going to give Carey the best handjob of his existence, but Carey pushes his arm away with one hand and wraps his other hand around his own dick. Jerks himself off. Sweat at his temples, face flushed. Letting PK watch. 

*

Carey doesn't get the shutout his first game back. A last second goal--literally, and PK is furious with himself because he was on the ice, fucking Crosby--ruins that particular fairy tale ending. But they win, and PK and Carey do the triple low five once they're back in the dressing room. Music thumps. PK can't stop smiling. Goes through his post game routine on autopilot: he's halfway out the door, humming a little Drake, when Carey calls for him to wait. 

"You're my ride for another week, man," he says. 

"I know," PK says. 

"You forgot," Carey says. Which is true. PK shrugs, doesn't apologize. Just moves a little closer to Carey. They walk to his car, arms brushing every couple of steps. PK's new shoes loud against the pavement. Carey's hat is ugly; PK grabs it and puts it on his own head. Carey doesn't take it back.

They climb into the car. PK turns the keys in the ignition, and Carey turns the radio to one of his crappy country stations. Prust honks as he drives past, waving with his hand out the window.

PK reaches his arm across the back of Carey's seat as he pulls out of his spot. Carey leans back. PK taps his ear before returning his hand to the wheel, forcing himself to concentrate on the road. 

"So," he says, aiming for cool and probably missing. "Your place or mine?"

Carey plucks his hat back off PK's head. Tosses it into the backseat. "Yours," he says. Calm as can be. "My family's still in town, and I want to fuck you tonight." 

PK's palms feel damp. He flips the turn signal on about a kilometre too soon. "Sounds good, man," he says, trying to talk through a suddenly dry throat. He coughs. "Yeah."

It starts to snow. PK drives home.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Luna, she of the mighty word fixing skills.


End file.
